TheBrokenHearted
You're dead. There was no sugarcoating, there was no promises of safety to the family or tears to be shed from their pathetic hollow tear ducts. Nothing at all . You're dead. Just the simple thought to be repeated over and over within the containment of their own mind. You're so dead. They had already gotten a head start, weaving their way through the pedestrians of the bustling cobblestone streets with a stride and smug grin that reeked putrid of confidence and carelessness. They should've cared. Their first big mistake. "Just make sure they don't make it out alive this time. You know what the survivors do for business." He clicked off the line and watched from the window as two men in bowler hats, buff and broad as day, tackled the skinny fugitive and ensured his capture for the second time. He sighed, yearning to be out there for the chase one last time. But there were other, more important matters ahead. He kicked open the crate and brought out a plastic baggie filled with the shit he wished he had known about years before when the beatings had started. $20 for a gram. They didn't know how much they were getting ripped off. "Boss, we got a straggler. Tried to go to the police with all of our little secrets." He whirled around and saw a bloody face, thin scar over the eye, coughing up the shit that was supposed to stay inside his body. The man walked over to the captive, lifted his chin up to eye level so they were face to face, though not intention to intention, with each other. He had full captivation and attention, just the way he liked it. "Don't get that shit on my shoes." A loud thwack as the captive's head jerked to the right, unfortunately caught in the wake of a gloved hand. The man took a drag of his pipe, blowing out the smoke with careful precision, walking over to the ashtray and placing his cigarette in it, adjusting it so it lay straight against the glass with the brand clearly visible. He never paid much attention to the ashtray before. "Get him to Lloyd. He'll be in good hands there." The squeals and cries of protest were not new to him, and he had learned to ignore their pathetic pleas early on in the business. They slowed down his work. Especially since he was the instigator of such pleas many years before. Thud-thud-thud. A scared boy scuttled under his bed as a wooden door was slammed open. "Where are you, mmmmm- boy?" It was clear that the boy could see the brown bag in a hairy fist. It hadn't stopped since his mother's death many years before. Despite what he was told in the events to come, the only mistake he made that night was banging his head as he tried to back up underneath his bed. What followed next was excruciating for the now-grown man to recall. The front of his shirt was captured in a vicelike grip as he was pulled, head coming into contact with all the metal springs of the underside of that damned bed, out into the open. Thwack! He landed on the concrete and curled up into the fetal position, mentally preparing himself for what was to come - the drunken stupor of anger resulting from a failed bet in the basement after a friendly game of poker had concluded. Thwack! This time, he flew all the way to the door. Record distance. "Why. Do. I. Have. To. Put. Up. With. Your. Bullshit." The words were accentuated by kicks to the abdomen, a gesture meant for plastic balls in the summertime with friends, not a combination of anger and disorientation as a result of a poor choice tattered now in bruises and coated in blood. "Please stop, Daddy. Please." The man's foot came again, and again, and --- halted. He plopped down next to the boy, who laid there rigid with shock, and water began to accumulate next to his legs as hot, salty tears rolled off his face. "I'm sorry, please forgive me." Oh, did he wail! The boy nodded, stupidly mistaken that his father had changed for the better, and crawled over to him for the fatherly embrace he always received after such terrifying events. The man blinked once, twice, and hunched back over his documents. Trade had been slow, the business not going nearly as good as he had hoped it would in previous years. "Boss, a letter for you." He was interrupted from his thoughts as he automatically reached for the note extended towards him. With a sigh, he unfolded it and read the sentence printed in a nearly unintelligible scrawl. "Midnight. The docks." There was no signature. Sighing, he pulled another cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. Whoever this mysterious stranger he was to meet would have to say to him was unknown. The only thing he knew for certain was his identity, the one thing that would stay true to him in the tumultuous times to arrive. His name was TheBrokenHearted, and he was known, whether for better or worse. His name was TheBrokenHearted, and his enemies would know his name. His name was TheBrokenHearted, and he would no longer tread lightly. The last series of thoughts he would have for a long while before his world faded to the oblivion consuming him whole.